Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3)

by Andy Peloquin

  Thankfully, all but Rangvaldr seemed capable enough at the oars. The Seiomenn insisted he’d never been much for water, though he’d visited the ocean along the eastern edge of the Eyrr clan lands. Noll, a man of Lochton, had more experience rowing on calm lakes than choppy oceans, but he’d managed to keep down his stomach contents thus far. The rest of them, especially Belthar, had ample experience crewing small boats like this one to remain afloat. Their stamina, however, proved another matter—the strength required to hold a shield, swing a sword or axe, or draw a bow differed from the endurance needed to haul oars.

  “Steady on,” Belthar called. “Almost…there.”

  “What…in the Keeper’s name…does steady on…even mean?” Noll gasped, struggling for breath after just a few minutes of rowing.

  Colborn shot a glare at the scout. “It means pull…your damned oar…and quit bitching!”

  “Bitching’s…all we’ve got...Lieutenant.” Noll grunted and strained with his oar. “Only way to forget…about the bloody sharks!”

  Blackfin sharks were far from the largest of their kind, but they could be particularly vicious during the winter months when fish sought warmer waters. Countless sailors had been dragged to their deaths or simply torn limb from limb by the savage, razor-sharp teeth of the long, sleek sharks.

  Belthar leaned against the rudder hard. “Come about…starboard!”

  Noll shot a confused look at Aravon.

  “To the right,” Aravon shouted over the crash of waves. A spray of sea water splashed across the back of his head, seeping into his collar and sending icy fingers racing down his spine. He gritted his teeth against the cold, against the ache in his back, the throbbing in his neck and shoulders, and the fire burning in his lungs. He just had to keep pulling the oar, keep rowing until they reached shelter and land.

  Hope surged within him as the boat veered slowly to starboard once more. Their little boat cut through the surf and spray, sliding into a small inlet that had been invisible in the darkness. Indeed, as they slid deeper into the darkness between the high stone cliffs, he found the inlet ran south then curved sharply west. Towering walls of jagged rock blocked their view of the ocean—and blocked the strong current from tossing their boat to and fro.

  Again, the horrible rasping, grating sound echoed along the bottom of the dory. Aravon could feel the wood shudder beneath his feet, feel the vibrations through the hard wooden seat beneath him and shivering up his spine. For a terrifying second, panic gripped him. If those rocks tore a hole in the bottom of the boat, they would drown in the current or be dashed to pieces on the jagged cliff face.

  A heartbeat later, the scraping quietened and the boat slid smoothly though waters that had now grown calm. The same rocks that had nearly destroyed their boat also served to keep out much of the ocean’s current. The water’s surface remained unsettled, tossed about by the current, but there was no strong undertow to make the rowing difficult.

  “I see land,” Skathi called. “Dead ahead.”

  “Almost there.” Belthar gripped the rudder tight and set it straight. “But we’ve got to hurry before—”

  A loud hissing cut off his words, and a white-foamed wave surged through the gap in the cliff walls, spilling over the natural rock water-break and raging along the narrow inlet. The swell swept up the boat and carried it at a terrifying, breakneck pace right toward the jagged rocks.

  “Oh, shi—!” Noll’s shout was cut off as the boat grated on rocks with that horrible scraping sound. The dory lurched, shuddered, and tipped over, hurling the seven of them from the boat.

  Aravon managed to tuck into a somersault as he flew through the air. He landed hard, his left shoulder striking rock. Pain flared along the bone and joint, but he rolled with the impact and came to his feet, boots digging into soft, wet sand. Arms flailing, he caught his balance—just in time to catch Colborn as he hurtled past. His grip on the Lieutenant’s arm stopped him from crashing into the cliff face.

  Eyes wide, Colborn gasped at the dark, wet rocks that had nearly shattered his skull, limbs, or chest. He managed to find his feet, yet his legs seemed as wobbly as his exertion-fatigued arms. At Colborn’s nod, Aravon released the Lieutenant and turned to help the rest of their small company. Skathi, Zaharis, and Belthar had landed on soft sand and appeared no worse for the ordeal. Noll spluttered and snarled curses as he shook off water like a soaked, bedraggled cat. Rangvaldr, however, lay groaning atop a broad, round rock, a hand pressed to his left side.

  Aravon raced over and knelt beside the Seiomenn. “Anything broken?”

  “I…don’t think so!” Rangvaldr gasped. “Just…got the wind…knocked out of me.” He held out a hand. “Help…me up.”

  Aravon hauled the Seiomenn to his feet, eliciting another groan of pain from Rangvaldr. “Bloody thing…will leave a bruise.” Long seconds passed before he drew in a full breath and waved Aravon away. “But we’re lucky if that’s all we walk away with after that.” He shook his head. “A perfect reminder of why we Eyrr enjoy marveling at the water’s beauty, but will never be caught upon its surface.”

  “Bloody waves, ice-cold water, and rocks!” Noll spluttered. He tore off his mask, wiped water from his face, and shook himself all over like a soaked wolfhound.

  “Don’t forget the sharks and sand scorpions.” Skathi’s eyes widened and she thrust a finger toward the scout’s feet. “Like that one there!”

  Noll squawked and leapt into the air, spinning as he landed. His eyes darted about, but found only empty sand.

  Skathi laughed, a rich, hearty sound, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Remember, Noll: a coward dies a million deaths.”

  “And an arsehole archer only needs to die one,” Noll snapped. That only made Skathi laugh harder. Belthar, Colborn, and Zaharis joined in, which only deepened the scowl on Noll’s face.

  “Good to know no one’s worse off for the wear.” Aravon glanced at Rangvaldr—the Seiomenn could stand without hunching over, and he breathed steadily—then turned to Belthar. “Lead the way, big man.”

  Belthar nodded. “Aye, Captain.” A dark storm brewed in his eyes. He, more than any of them, knew what awaited him—and all of them—if they ran into the Brokers. Yet for the sake of Icespire, they’d all agreed that it was worth the risk. They’d have an easier time getting through pissed-off smugglers and bone-thumpers than a horde of Eirdkilrs.

  The towering cliff walls blocked out all light of the Icespire, leaving only the faint moon and starlight to illuminate the cove. Now Aravon understood why Belthar had been in such a hurry to reach it—at peak evening tide, the ocean rose high enough that the flat-bottomed boat could pass over the rocky sea wall blocking the inlet entrance.

  Belthar turned to Skathi and held out a hand for the lamp. Somehow, the Agrotora had managed to hang on to Zaharis’ alchemical light despite the gracious debarkation—knowing what Zaharis would do if she lost it was ample motivation. Passing the glowing globe to Belthar, Skathi unlimbered her bow and nocked an arrow—as usual, ready for any danger.

  Belthar held up the alchemical lamp, and the soft blue-and-red glow shone on the sandy beach of a cove fifteen feet wide and no more than ten across—barely large enough for all of them to stand, much less fit their boat. At the top of the beach, up the sandy incline, stood an opening into darkness.

  A smuggler’s cave. The perfect place to load and offload goods the Brokers would rather keep from the Icewatchers’ notice. And, by the Swordsman’s grace, our way into Icespire.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Aravon gripped his spear tighter and fell into step behind Belthar and Skathi. Zaharis and Rangvaldr took up position on his right and left, with Colborn and Noll bringing up the rear. The seven of them moved in well-rehearsed unison into the pitch blackness of the smugglers’ cave.

  The dim glow of Zaharis’ alchemical lantern shone on walls long ago worn smooth by wind, sea water, and age, and a roof that ended mere inches above Belthar’s huge head. The floor rose at
a gentle incline, and within ten steps of the mouth of the cave, the stone had dried completely. Sand crunched beneath their boots as they marched in silence up the slope, deeper into the unlit tunnel carved into the heart of the cliff.

  Fifty yards in, something on the walls caught Aravon’s attention. The stone near the cave’s mouth had been worn smooth, yet here, away from the elements, the stone bore a myriad of symbols carved into its surface. Strange markings resembling the runes used by the Fehlan clans, yet far more ancient, timeless.

  “All this gibberish written on the walls looks an awful lot like your Secret Keeper script,” Noll said. “Any chance you can read it, Zaharis?”

  “Some.” The Secret Keeper tilted his head, staring at the wall. “This is the language of the ancient Serenii. Few alive today can decipher it, and even the most learned among my fellows can read only a fraction of the truly complex, complicated language—the language that once wielded powerful magics to rule and shape our world.”

  “So what’s it say?” Noll asked. “Because if it’s got something magical we can use to hit back at the Eirdkilrs, I’m all for it. While the Seiomenn’s got stones enough to heal us—” He winked at Rangvaldr. “—we’re in need of something with a bit more offensive power.”

  “Other than that offensive odor from your armpits?” Skathi shot back without glancing over her shoulder.

  Zaharis’ fingers moved before Noll could retort. “From what I can understand, the writing here speaks of the Icespire and its original purpose. Most of it is language far beyond my comprehension, even if I could read the Serenii script. But from ‘harvest radiance’, I’m guessing it’s collecting sunlight somehow. Turning it by some ancient magic into the light that sets the Icespire glowing at night.”

  That was nothing new—for centuries, since mainlanders first arrived on Fehl and laid eyes on the Icespire, it had been accepted knowledge that the Serenii magic did precisely as Zaharis had explained. No one knew how, simply that it did.

  “There’s mention of ‘sustenance’ here.” Zaharis gestured to a collection of symbols that looked identical to every other marking they passed. “And ‘bound against the return’, though what that could mean, I have no idea.” The Secret Keeper said nothing more for long minutes as he studied the strange markings, then shrugged. “That’s all I can read.”

  “Damn,” Noll muttered from behind Aravon. “I’ll take it that’s a ‘no’ on magic that can burn the Eirdkilrs to a crisp, then?”

  “If there is,” Zaharis signed, “I’m not seeing any explanation I can understand here on the walls. Then again, if you knew a secret like that, would you really be leaving it written down where anyone could find it?”

  “Fair point.” Noll shrugged. “All the same, it would’ve been mighty kind if the Serenii had left something like that for us to use. Now that we bloody need it.”

  “We don’t need magic.” Aravon tried to sound confident; the Grim Reavers already faced a desperate battle, and they’d fight better if they felt he believed they had a chance of victory. “Not when courageous men and women like you still draw breath. Soldiers who will fight no matter how damned difficult things look. And in doing so, have proven time and again that impossible is just a problem that hasn’t yet been figured out. Though it may feel like we are on our own, we are never alone. The Swordsman walks with us.” He shot a glance at Rangvaldr. “Nuius as well.”

  Rangvaldr inclined his head. “Nuius lights our path to victory.”

  “I’m all for the mighty Swordsman and a Fehlan god or two.” Noll’s voice echoed from behind Aravon. “But I’d take a few Battalions of Legionnaires, too.”

  “Going soft on us, Noll?” Colborn nudged the scout. “There was a time when you’d have taken on all eight thousand Eirdkilrs alone, just for a great story.”

  “I’ve already got stories enough for a lifetime,” Noll shot back. “These last few weeks, I’ve grown wise enough to know I’d take a guaranteed victory any day.” Despite his words, the scout’s voice held no doubt or fear, simply the grim humor of a man facing certain death.

  “Well, oh wise one, keep your eyes peeled and maybe you’ll catch sight of ol’ One-Eye.” Skathi glanced over her shoulder now, a wicked sparkle in her emerald eyes. “A chance to prove your shot at Hangman’s Hill wasn’t just beginner’s luck.”

  “Luck?” Outrage tinged Noll’s shout. “I’ll have you know—”

  A hiss from Belthar cut off his words. The big man’s hand flew up, forming a fist, the signal to freeze. All of them went immediately silent and immobile. Belthar’s huge fingers engulfed the alchemical globes, blocking out the light and plunging the tunnel into darkness. A deep, all-encompassing blackness that pressed in around Aravon. No starlight or pale slivers of moonbeams. No distant flickers of candles, torches, or the soft blue glow of the Icespire. Empty blackness, with only the hammering beat of his heart and the sound of his comrades’ breathing for company.

  Long seconds passed in near-silence. None of the Grim Reavers moved. Not a clank of a sheathed weapon, nothing louder than the quiet, steady intake of breath. The seven of them listened. And waited.

  Then Aravon heard it: voices. Many of them, faint and distant, drifting down the tunnel from somewhere above and ahead of them. The unmistakable crying of an infant punctuated the low hum of muttered conversation.

  Belthar lifted his pinky finger, just enough to allow a sliver of lamplight to fill the corridor.

  “Forty, maybe fifty yards ahead,” Skathi signed one-handed.

  “A lot of people.” Belthar’s eyes darkened. “Men, for sure, but I heard a child.”

  “Brokers?” Aravon asked.

  Belthar hesitated a long moment, then shrugged one huge shoulder. “Can’t be sure, but not many others in Icespire know of this place.”

  “So be it.” Aravon looked at the masked faces around him. “Weapons ready, but don’t make a move until we get a better understanding of the situation.”

  The six nodded understanding and moved with the calm precision that made them such effective soldiers and warriors. Noll unslung his bow, all trace of humor gone from his eyes, replaced by wary alertness. Colborn gripped his shield in one hand and drew his sword with barely more than a whisper of steel on leather. Rangvaldr’s movements mirrored the Lieutenant’s. Belthar passed the lantern to Zaharis—who did something to the glass globe that dimmed its light—and drew his huge double-headed axe.

  At Aravon’s nod, the Grim Reavers advanced. Step by silent step, swords and spear held at the ready, bows nocked and waiting to draw. Up the tunnel, deeper into the blackness of the tunnel. Aravon’s mouth felt dry, his heart hammering a staccato beat in his chest. He felt no fear, simply apprehension of what lay ahead. The last thing he wanted to do was kill innocent civilians, but if they were Brokers filling the tunnel, they might give him no choice. He couldn’t let Gengibar Twist’s enmity stop them from getting into Icespire and saving the city.

  Ahead, a faint glimmer of light shone around a corner in the tunnel. Aravon signaled for Zaharis to put away the lamp, and they crept through the darkness toward the source of the glow. With every step, the sound of men, women, and children grew louder. An infant’s piercing wail echoed through the rocky passage—perfect to mask any sound of the Grim Reavers’ slow, steady progress.

  At the corner, Aravon tapped on Belthar’s shoulder and signaled for the big man to make way. He cautiously peered around the rock wall. Lanterns, candles, and oil lamps dotted the long, straight tunnel, shining on the panicked, wide-eyed faces of men and women huddled with their children along the rocky walls. Some shivered, their ragged clothing too thin and threadbare to keep out the chill of the underground passage. Many more simply sat in silence, their expressions a myriad of variations on stunned surprise, disbelief, and horror. As if they couldn’t fathom what was happening in their city.

  Yet not all were stunned to immobility. Dozens of strong-armed, thick-necked men clad in woolen vests, leather breeches, a
nd good leather boots strode along the length of the passage. Clubs, swords, and daggers hung from their belts, but in their hands they carried waterskins, parcels of food, and blankets to distribute among the huddled people.

  Aravon’s eyes fell on a familiar figure: tall, lean, with long hair so dark brown it appeared black, angular features, and scars marring the right side of his face. The one-eyed Gengibar Twist stood in hushed conference with a pair of his thugs not twenty feet from Aravon, his narrow mouth twisted into a frowning scowl.

  That sight, and the sight of the bone-thumpers mingling among the civilians in the passage, brought to Aravon’s mind an idea. One that bordered on insanity, yet given their desperate circumstances, the only hope he, these people, and all of Icespire might have.

  He burst from the shadows, darted around the corner, and sprinted the twenty feet toward the Broker’s leader. He trusted his men to follow—even when he did something this insane.

  One of the two bone-thumpers saw him coming and turned to meet his charge. Too late. Aravon barreled through the man, shoulder crashing into his gut and doubling him over. He seized Gengibar Twist’s neck in one hand, shoved the man against the wall, pressed the wooden shaft of his spear against the man’s throat with crushing force.

  “Anyone makes a move, he dies!” Aravon shouted.

  Cries of alarm, fury, and panic echoed all along the passage. The sound of booted feet echoed from both directions—the Grim Reavers racing to join Aravon, and the Brokers thundering toward the strange figures threatening their leader. Within seconds, more than twenty slope-shouldered bone-thumpers had formed a wall of muscle and fury facing the Grim Reavers, who had surrounded Aravon and his captive.